‘Hi, Helen, is she in?’
‘Yes, madame. In the kitchen.’
She handed the housekeeper a Christmas card. ‘That’s for you. Please wait up here ... this may not be too pretty.’
Emily took the stairs two at a time, the sweet smell of mince pies and her anger growing stronger with each stride.
Mary was rolling out pastry and looked up smiling when Emily entered.
‘How long have we been friends?’ Emily asked.
‘Good afternoon to you too. I heard you were back. Where have you been hiding?’ asked Mary, lifting one side of the pastry and shifting it to the centre of the counter.
Emily’s heart hammered against her ribcage. Did Mary seriously not realize what she was doing to her? ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? By threatening to tell Alex and our entire social circle, you’ve backed me into a corner. What gives you the right to dothat?’
‘What you’re doing is morally wrong,’ said Mary waving her rolling pin at Emily.
‘I didn’t do this on a whim, nor did I agree to keep schtum about it with a light heart. Do you think I like withholding this sort of information from my son?’
‘Then come clean,’ said Mary, thrusting her rolling pin back and forth vigorously. ‘You’ll feel better for it.’
Emily wrestled the rolling pin off her friend. ‘Don’t be such a sanctimonious little shit. You’ve never earned a penny in your life; you inherited all your wealth.’ Mary took a step backwards, her mouth now wide open, but Emily rushed on. ‘Charles works for the family firm, no one could possibly fire him. What’s morally right about that?’
The room fell silent. Emily was breathing heavily; she got herself under control and became aware of the gentle hum of the oven.
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ admitted Mary softly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s your decision who you tell.’
Twenty-six
January 7th
Ellis bank balance: £152,175.95
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 86 Mark: 80
On their first day back in Portugal, Emily was woken by Mark jabbing her in the shoulder.
‘Did you pack any wellies?’ he asked.
‘Wellies?’ she mumbled, rolling onto her side.
His face was pressed up against the bedroom window. She yawned and plodded over to join him, peering out over his shoulder. The lawn was submerged under a shallow lake that stretched across the patio, lapping at the new kitchen doors. Where were the dogs supposed to do their business?
Emily blinked. ‘Something must’ve jammed in the storm drain.’
‘Where is the storm drain?’
‘Over by Tommy’s, where Tosca had fun with that toad last year.’
‘Want me to check?’
She rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘Would you be an angel?’
Emily climbed back into bed, pulling the duvet up and snuggling under it so only her nose and eyes were uncovered. ‘You couldn’t let the dogs out the front for me, could you?’ she mumbled. ‘They can pee on the driveway.’
Gingerly, Mark opened the kitchen door. It had stopped raining and the garden was eerily silent, not a single bird searching for food, but then he thought, water birds didn’t usually hunt at Villa Anna. He stepped outside and gasped. The water felt icy. He hitched up his tracksuit bottoms and waded across the garden, his toes numb with cold. He trod on something hard and sharp, and his leg buckled.
Mark reached the edge of the storm drain and looked down into the dirty brown water. Half-submerged was a tangle of pine branches, their lower limbs underwater, the top portion exposed. They shouldn’t have been there – where had they come from? He hiked up his tracksuit until the elasticated bottoms were above his knees like a pair of Edwardian bloomers, lowered himself into the storm drain, and waded over to the boundary fence where he could see Tommy’s side. It was filled with large boulders, just a trickle of water dribbling through the cracks into the channel built to allow the rain to pass through onto surrounding land. His hands bunched into fists of rage, Mark clambered over Tommy’s fence to clear the blockage.
